


Someone Like You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade faces the loneliness of life after a divorce.  He questions whether he can love again.  The days go by, not much distinguishing one from the other, until a series of events happen that make him begin to understand that despite the past, he wants to love again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As Days Go By...

Gregory Lestrade was a man who loved; he loved his job, he loved his family, he loved his mates, and he loved his wife.  That is, until she started cheating on him.  Well, now, that’s not entirely true.  He tried to love her through her affairs, convinced if he’d just meet this demand or be that for her, the love they once shared would return.  But that love didn’t return.  And eventually Greg’s love ran out.  And although they’d been divorced since late summer, Gregory Lestrade wasn’t sure that he could ever love again.

**oOo**

After a week’s holiday, he was summoned by one Mycroft Holmes to assist Sherlock and John in an investigation in Dartmoor, at the Baskerville military base.  It was on his way that he decided to toss his wedding ring, feeling sad and yet relieved to be rid of the burden.  He was tan from his week in Spain and there was a conspicuous line on his finger where his band had been.  Ironically it wasn’t Sherlock that noticed; it was John.

Of course they’d spent most of the day chasing ghosts, or large red-eyed dogs, as it were, culminating in the death of Bob someone-one-or-another and the scare of a lifetime.  After giving their statements to the local police and with Henry on his way home, the trio headed back to the Cross Keys Inn.  Sherlock decided to retire to his room, leaving John and Greg to their drinks in the pub.

“So how’s it going, Greg?”  John took a first sip of his beer, scanning the pub’s patrons.

“Yeah, you know.  It’s going.”

John turned to look at him, eyeballing his hand.  “You and the wife done then?”

Taking his hand from his glass and raising it up slightly, he looked down at it, where his ring used to be.  “Yeah.  It was time, you know?”

John clapped him on the shoulder with a strong hand.  “I’m sorry, mate.”

Greg shrugged and took a long draw from his beer.  He turned his attention to the telly and steered the conversation towards the events of the evening.

He and John passed a few hours in easy conversation and Greg returned to his room exhausted, ready for sleep and ready to return to London the next day.

**oOo**

And so the days dragged on, day in, day out – the steady rhythm of being a policeman, a detective, a boss, a mate, and Sherlock’s keeper.  One by one, the days went by but looked mostly the same.  He’d come home to the same damp, run-down flat he’d moved to after the separation, sleep in the same lumpy bed and eat the same take away.  Life went on.

He wasn’t as depressed as he was embarrassed at his failed marriage.  And it had failed in the most humiliating way, an affair.  After all, there’s one thing to being able to hold your head high if you and your wife agree to split, but to be cheated on, to be taken for a fool who would stand for it, as someone who would turn your head while your wife gets off in another man’s bed and then comes home to you, well, that’s about as low as you can strike a man.  Because everyone knows when your wife cheats on you, it’s because you haven’t fulfilled her needs, right?

So Greg spent his days, working long hours and having the occasional night out at the local.  Sometimes he’d be joined by other Yarders, sometimes by John if Sherlock was being a right twat, but every evening ended the same way; by himself in his lumpy bed in his run-down flat.

Time went by this way for months even Christmas came and went and still Greg was alone.

**oOo**

It was maybe late spring when things started to change around him.  Sherlock had been called in on a murder case and, being the great idiot he was, had run off on his own chasing the suspect.  When Lestrade and John found him, he was lying in a pool of his own blood, with a gunshot wound to the stomach and a blow to his head.

Now he was in hospital, expected to make a full recovery and giving the nursing staff hell.  John was trying his best to get Sherlock to shut up and behave and Lestrade was standing back, watching the show and chuckling.  He heard the click-click of dress shoes in the door behind him and turned to find Mycroft Holmes, umbrella in hand, impeccably dressed as always.

“Get out, Mycroft!”  Sherlock bellowed.

“Sherlock”, John warned, shooting the injured man a death glare.

Mycroft looked at the floor, tapped his umbrella once, and spoke in a calm voice.  “It’s quite alright, John.  Sherlock, I came to see DI Lestrade.  And since I can see that you will be fine, I will take my leave.  Inspector?”  Greg rolled his eyes and followed Mycroft out of the room.

He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the hall.  Mycroft had stopped and was leaning against the wall; his feet were crossed and his head down as if inspecting his shoes. 

“What is it, Mycroft?”  Greg really wasn’t in the mood to be under Mycroft’s microscope right now.  It had been a long few days, with little sleep and way too much bad coffee.  Greg realized his head was pounding and all he really wanted to do was go home to sleep.

“I wanted to thank you, Gregory, for chasing after my brother.  _Yet again_.”  Mycroft looked up at Greg, his eyes giving away the weariness of worry he’d experienced at Sherlock’s hand again. 

Greg rubbed a hand over his face.  “Yeah, you’re welcome.  But you should probably thank John rather than me.  I didn’t even know he’d taken off on his own until I got a call from John.  Your brother is an idiot.”

“Indeed.  One of his specialties, I assure you.”  Mycroft cracked a small smile and stood straight, titling his head to one side and looking at Greg through lidded eyes. 

Chuckling, Greg found himself returning Mycroft’s smile.  There was something gentle in it that he’d really not seen before.  His association with the elder brother had been mostly cordial over the years he’d known Sherlock.  There’d been plenty of pleasantries and the like, but nothing of any substance other than what needed to be discussed regarding the younger Holmes.  This smile, this line of conversation, was certainly open and _warm_ and that was not a feeling Greg was used to associating with Mycroft.

“Would you care to join me for some tea?”

“I uhm…I’d love to, Mycroft, but I am absolutely knackered.  Right now I think the most I can manage is to make it back to mine and crash.  Maybe another time?”

The warm fell from Mycroft’s face as he straightened his stance and hooked his umbrella over his arm, letting the cold mask back slip back into place.  “Yes, of course.  Another time.  Thank you, Inspector.”  With that, he turned and left.

 _What the hell was that?_ Greg wondered to himself.  _Because it felt an awful lot like being asked out._   Not that Greg would mind.  Hell, it had been months since his divorce, even longer since he’d dated.  In his heyday, Greg would have gone out with anyone who asked, male or female.  He didn’t care as long as they were attractive and moderately interesting.  And although he’d married a woman, he found he didn’t mind the thought of dating a man, especially when that man was a certain Mycroft Holmes.

**oOo**

That evening, after spending most of the day in bed, Greg received a text from John.

_Care for a pint?  JW_

_Sherlock being a twat?  GL_

_Worse.  He’s being himself.  He’s driving the nurses crazy.  I need a break.  JW_

_Sure.  Meet you at the usual place in 15?  GL_

_See you then.  JW_

John and Greg sat at the bar, downing their second pint, happily shouting at the game on telly when John received the first of his summons.

_John.  SH_

“Oh bugger.  Can’t he just leave me alone for a while?”  John moaned.

Greg laughed.  “No, mate.  You’re the only one who can put up with him.  He needs you.”

John shot him a glare.  “God, not you too, really Greg?  We are not a couple!”

This made Greg laugh even harder.  “Calm down!  Never said you were!”  John’s mobile started skimming across the bar top again, causing Greg to almost bend over in laughter.

_Joooohhhnnn.  SH_

“Greg, when I murder him, and I am going to murder him, do your best to get me off.  Call Mycroft if you have to.”  By now Greg was laughing so hard, he had tears in his eyes, as a third message just about sent John’s phone off the bar altogether.

_John!  I need you.  Bored.  SH_

Greg clapped John on the arm, trying to wipe the laughter from his face and failing miserably.  “You’d better go, mate.  He’s calling for you.”

“God, I hate him.”  John downed the last of his pint.  “Bye, Greg.”

Greg raised a hand in farewell before turning back to his own pint and the game on telly. He was working his way through his third beer when his mobile buzzed in his pocket.  Checking it, he found a text message waiting.

_Good evening, Gregory.  Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?  Mycroft Holmes_

_Damn,_ he thought, _two invitations in a day?_ His initial instincts must have been correct; Mycroft was asking him out.

It was easy to be a little cheeky with a few beers in him, so rather than giving a straight answer to a seemingly simple question, Greg sent back a teaser.

_Mycroft Holmes, are you asking me out?  GL_

The response was quick and maybe not quite the answer Greg was expecting but the one he was hoping for.

_Yes, Inspector, I believe I am.  MH_

_Well, in that case, yes.  GL_

His heart started pounding in his chest as the prospect of going on a date with Mycroft Holmes settled in.

_I would like to thank you for once again coming to Sherlock’s rescue.  MH_

Oh.  Maybe Greg had read it wrong after all.  Could he back out now?

_A car should arrive at the pub in 5 minutes.  I look forward to seeing you, Gregory.  MH_

Damn it all to hell, guess not.  Well, at least Greg would get a free meal out of it and a good one, he was sure.  Who knows?  He might even have a nice time, too.  And he’d get to look at the handsome face of the elder Holmes over dinner. _Not a half-bad deal,_ he thought.


	2. The Past is a B*$^%

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg reflects on his past, his marriage, and what he's previously thought about a Mr Mycroft Holmes.

Of course, fate had other plans for Gregory Lestrade that night.  As he climbed into the waiting car, his phone buzzed.  He pulled it out and grimaced at the number.

“Lestrade.”

Sally Donovan answered, “Sir, we need you back in.  We have a lead on the murder suspect.”

Greg ran a hand over his face and sighed.  “Yeah, yeah, alright.  I’m coming.”  He tapped on the glass partition and gave the driver instructions to take him to New Scotland Yard.  Then he called Mycroft.

“Good evening, Gregory.”

“Mycroft, uhm, sorry change in plans.  I’ve been called back in.  We’ve got a lead on the guy that hurt Sherlock.”  He paused, waiting for a response.  When none came, he continued.  “Can I get a rain check on our dinner?”

“Yes, of course, Detective Inspector.  I understand.  Another time.”

The line went dead.  Greg just shook his head and enjoyed the comfortable ride.

**oOo**

The lead turned out to be a bust and Greg found himself back at his flat several hours later.  It was too late to call Mycroft again, and besides, his head was pounding.  It had been a draining few days, Sherlock had been injured, there was this weirdness with Mycroft, and God help him, all Greg wanted to do was turn it off and just not think for a few hours.  He settled in on the couch, switching on the telly, thinking that the mindless drone of the thing would give him some reprieve from the drama which had settled in his life recently.  No such luck.  He couldn’t concentrate on that blasted thing at all; instead his thoughts kept swirling back to Mycroft Holmes.

It wasn’t that he’d never given a thought to Mycroft at all; in fact, it was just the opposite.  He could appreciate the man’s unique beauty, although entirely altogether different than his younger brother’s ethereal good looks, but Greg had just kinda never thought about it much past that.  Sure the bloke was posh and polished and his confidence struck you hard in the chest – and those damn bespoke suits, so finely tailored as to highlight every salacious inch of his body…oh damn, maybe Greg had given it more thought that he’d realized.  It never mattered before though, since he was married, and even if his wife cheated on him, he wasn’t the kind to return the favor.

It had been years since Greg had been with a man, of course.  Married for more than a decade, he’d made his decision on which side he played on _for life,_ he thought.  The interest in the same sex had always been there though; as a married man he could appreciate a beautiful woman, but he could also appreciate a beautiful man.  Before his marriage, he’d had a string of lovers, men and women.  His last male lover had died just before he met his wife, the tragedy of it never quite leaving him.  He thought back to Liam; he was similar to Mycroft in some respects - tall and thin, ginger hair, well-spoken.  But he was also so different; Greg could remember his laugh and his smile, the one that spread across his face and lit up his eyes.  He had the most striking eyes; they were light blue mostly but sometimes grey if the weather was dark.  The pain of losing him shot through Greg again, even all these years later, and he felt tears well in the corners of his eyes.

He’d met his wife in a drunken turn at a pub with his buddies and took her home that night.  Maybe he never really loved her, he thought; maybe she was just the way to get over Liam.  He thought back to the decision to propose.  What was it about her that made him think he loved her?  He tried to make a list in his mind of the qualities, the attributes which drew him to her, but as hard as he tried, he could up with none.  Literally, none.  Sure, she was pretty, smart, occasionally funny, but those things were tempered by her less desirable qualities.  She turned out to be controlling and criticizing and demanding.  It only took a few years of marriage for the humor to disappear completely and after that there were rarely smiles.  And then began the worry; she worried about his safety, which he didn’t find unreasonable given his line of work, but she would worry to the point of excess.  He remembered a particular incident, receiving a frantic call from her, hysterical, crying, and he rushed home, to find her huddled in a corner, sobbing, going over and over what she would do if he died.

It was probably the worry and obsession over the future that Greg found the most difficult to deal with.  He’d found out (after they married) that she suffered with OCD, not the hand-washing, ritualistic kind that’s most familiar to everyone, but the obsessive thought kind, with which he made the mistake of thinking he could rationalize.  Every week, or every few days, depending on how occupied she was with other things, she’d find a new topic to focus on, always playing the what if scenario, always demonizing the possibility of some outcome of a situation no matter how far-fetched it might be…some weeks it was his death, sometimes their retirement, many times what would happen if they children, a few times it was what if the flat burned down.  It was tiresome and draining.

He’d tried to deal with it as best he could.  They’d gone to counseling; he tried everything that was suggested.  But there was just no way around it.  As a DI he dealt with tragedy every day, real tragedy, not the kind manufactured of an idle mind.  He was in the here and now and his wife was not.  Nothing changed, even with the counseling, so Greg began to shut down.  He drew away from his wife - he just couldn’t continue to try to rationalize with her anymore.  Maybe it was his fault that she’d sought comfort from others.

There was a buzz in his pocket which snapped him back to the present, the crap telly, and his couch.

_Dinner tomorrow, perhaps?  MH_

Greg smiled and his thoughts floated back to Mycroft Holmes again.  The short ginger hair, the exquisitely fitted suits, that damned umbrella.  What did he really know about Mycroft anyway?  Sure, he was the older, meddling brother of the World’s Most Obnoxious Twat, and probably a twat in his own right.  He was controlled and calm.  It seemed he had endless resources at his disposal and that he wasn’t afraid to use them.  Greg knew, without a doubt, that Mycroft loved his younger brother, even if he had a strange (and slightly creepy) way of showing it.  But Greg didn’t know exactly how Mycroft earned his living, or where he lived, or if he had friends, or hobbies, or, well, anything really.  Their conversations had been pleasant, cordial, and mostly about Sherlock (and John).

Greg knew one other thing about Mycroft, without a doubt, and that was that he was way out of Greg’s league.  He was obviously used to rubbing elbows with the posh, the elite, and the upper echelons of society, something Greg wasn’t.  Doubt and worry began to settle into his bones and he wondered exactly why Mycroft would want to have dinner with him; surely Greg was reading more into it that was there.  There no way that someone like Mycroft Holmes would be interested in a lowly, middle-aged, divorced DI.  He slowly typed out a response.

_You really don’t need to thank me for helping your idiot brother.  GL_

The response was almost immediate.

_I know that I don’t need to, but I would like to.  MH_

Greg felt Confusion settle in as a next-door neighbor to Doubt and Worry.  What kind of game was Mycroft playing?

_Why?  GL_

_Why not?  MH_

_Can you just answer the damn question?  Why, Mycroft?  GL_

The wait for an answer seemed to stretch for an eternity to Greg, but it was likely just a minute or two.

_I would like to get to know you better.  MH_

_What the hell did that mean,_ he thought to himself.

_I have enough friends, thank you.  It may be best if we stick to a strictly business relationship regarding Sherlock.  GL_

Greg waited.  Two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes…at fifteen minutes he gave up and went to the loo, thinking a response would be waiting when he returned, but there was none.  What kind of response did he think that deserved anyway?  He'd basically just shooed the man away, telling him he wasn't interested in anything more.  He felt oddly...disappointed.  But what was done, was done.  Oh well, guess it was time to go to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea where this story is going. Part of me is thinking that I am using it as therapy to deal with my own feelings of divorce. I did try to accurately describe what it is like to live with someone who suffers with OCD (thoughts, not actions) and the stresses I experienced in my own marriage. Thanks for reading!


	3. Charlotte Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is assigned to a case and meets a woman named Charlotte Hill. She is a free-spirit that lives life to the full. She finds Greg attractive (the feeling is mutual) and Greg does something that is a bit out of character.

Life continued, one case after another, day in, day out.  Greg had given little thought to Mycroft or their weird conversation and he hadn’t seen or heard from the man since, which was probably for the best.

And so it was weeks after the incident that landed Sherlock in hospital that Greg found a case on his desk that was rather boring, even by his own standards.  Some rich family had reported the theft of £100,000 of jewelry.  The DCI handed the case to Lestrade, hoping that the personal attention of a good DI would lessen any negative impact to the NSY in the event they couldn’t solve the crime, which seemed likely from what Lestrade could make of the case file.  There’d been no break in, there were no obvious suspects, and little by the way of clues left behind.

Greg decided to head over straight away, if for no other reason than to escape the monotony of the office and the stack of paperwork on his desk.

His BMW was out of place in the posh London neighborhood and it wasn’t a flat as much as a mini-mansion.  He popped up the stairs to the front door and rang the buzzer, straightening his tie and pressing down on the wrinkles in his overcoat.  The door opened to the face of a beautiful woman, who looked to be in her late thirties.  Her shoulder-length auburn hair was brushed to one side and she was dressed in a pair of jeans paired with a teal shirt that rouched on one side.  The teal of the shirt made her eyes look like a Caribbean sea, but what struck Greg hard was the beautiful smile she gave him.  She was naturally stunning.

“Uhm, I’m looking for Charlotte Hill.  I’m DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard.”  He flashed his warrant card.

“I’m Charlotte.  Please come in, Detective.”  He was surprised at that she had met him at the door, assuming from the neighborhood that she would be the kind to have servants but what shocked him even more was that she was American. 

He took a few steps into the flat noticing that despite the posh exterior, the interior was warm and felt lived-in.  He’d expected something much different, perhaps a full on designer showplace, complete with lots of furniture you didn’t feel comfortable sitting on and knick knacks you weren’t supposed to touch.  There was a sitting room to the left of the entrance and it was filled with an eclectic mixture of furniture; there were books, magazines, and papers strewn about, several musical instruments were in amongst the room’s furnishings, along with pictures of family (or friends?) and he could see several laptops, a flatscreen TV, and other electronic devices as well.

Charlotte paused, noticing Greg inspecting her sitting room.  “Please excuse the mess.  I spend quite a bit of time in there on my various hobbies.”

“Do you play all those instruments?”  He noted a guitar, a mandolin, a piano, a violin, and was that a pair of steel drums in the corner?

Ms. Hill flashed him a polite smile.  “Play is a very generous description of what I do with those instruments, Detective.  I dabble at playing.  I’m a singer, by training, but it seems natural to have instruments around me.”

As Greg stepped in, Charlotte inquired, “Would you like some tea?  I believe it’s just about tea time for you Brits, isn’t it?”  She lead Lestrade further into her home, arriving in the kitchen, which was just as warm as the rest of the house, but did have the added benefit of top-notch appliances.  Charlotte set about making tea.  “I don’t drink the stuff myself.  Never could get into the habit of liking tea, but I’ve been told I can make a mean cup.  Make yourself at home.”

Lestrade grinned.  “You have no idea what you are missing out on.  Tea is a staple of my fellow countrymen.”  He took off his overcoat and flung it over the back of one of the stools at the island, taking a seat in another.

Charlotte turned to look at him, leaning on the counter behind her, hands curled around the edges of the countertop.  “True, but then there are a number of things about England that I still haven’t gotten a taste for.  Perhaps I just haven’t been able to find a proper host to show me around.”

Greg blushed.  He continued looking at her and noticed that she wasn’t wearing much jewelry: a well-worn watch, which she wore on her right wrist, a silver ring on her ring finger that swirled in a pattern like a wave and covered her finger from knuckle to joint, and a pair of small diamond earrings.  For a woman who had just lost £100,000 of jewelry, she was lightly adorned.

When the kettle signaled its completion, she turned back to prepare the tea.  “You are here about the jewelry theft, I assume?”

“Yes.  I was hoping to ask you some questions and see where it was taken from.”  Charlotte set the tea before him.

“Cream?  Sugar?”  She placed her hand on his forearm as she asked and Greg felt his heart rate rise.

He cleared his throat and looked down at the tea.  “Milk, if you have it.”

“Of course.  What questions do you have for me?”

Greg watched her walk to the fridge and eyed her backside.  The jeans accentuated her body without being too tight.  His brain suddenly registered that he was here on police business and he squirmed in his seat, trying to get himself back on track.  “I’ve got the basics from the report.  Tell me about what was stolen.”

“Most of what was stolen belonged to my mother.  Worth some money, yes, but mostly just sentimental value.  There were other pieces in the same safe worth well more than what was taken.  I really have no idea who would want to them.  I never wear them – they really aren’t my style – but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want them.”  She had stepped close beside Greg to pour the milk in his tea and he caught the faintest whiff of her scent; freshly-showered, lavender, and _Charlotte_.  Up close he could see that she didn’t wear makeup- no blush, lipstick or eye shadow - and that she didn’t need to as her skin was flawless.  As she finished speaking and started to lean up, she glanced at him, catching his brown eyes and flashed a wide smile.

“Who knew about the pieces, about where they were?”  Greg noticed that Ms.  Hill hadn’t really stepped away from him, as much as she’d just stood up from leaning in front of him.

“The house staff, of course, and my brother.”  With another smile, she grabbed the milk and returned to the refrigerator, digging through for something for herself.

Lestrade took a sip of his tea, noting that it was good.  “Do you have a number of staff here?”

“No, only two, my personal assistant and a chef.  Cleaning service comes in once a week, but that’s it.  I prefer to do most things for myself.”  She turned, facing him, popping open the can of Coke in her hand.

“Who has access to the safe?”

“Only me, my brother, and my assistant.”

“You’re American.”  _Smooth, Greg, really smooth,_ he thought to himself.

She grinned.  “You noticed.  I thought I might have gotten that by you.”

 _She’s cheeky,_ he thought.  “Can’t slip that by me.  You don’t drink tea, you can’t be British.”

Charlotte tossed her hair back and laughed.  “Oh, you are a devil, aren’t you Detective?  I like that.”

 _Oh God,_ he thought, _she is so attractive and she’s flirting with me._ He felt his body respond to the thought of her flirting and trying to distract himself from it, he asked, “So is this a permanent residence or…”

“Or do I travel the world like the spoiled rich brat that I am?”  A sassy smirk crossed her face.  “I spend several months here at a time.  It’s like a second home to me.  Otherwise, I am mostly in the US, occasionally the Caribbean, and sometimes in the South of France.  I have my favorite places.”

Greg blushed.  “Look, I didn’t mean to insinuate you’re a spoiled rich kid…”

“Oh Detective, you are a hoot.  You said no such thing!  I did!”  The smirk got bigger, reaching her eyes giving them a mischievous gleam.

“Call me Greg, please.”  Laughing, Greg relaxed.  “So, how did you become a spoiled rich brat who lives in London and the US?  Oh, and occasionally the South of France?”

She had stepped forward and was now leaning on her elbows on the kitchen island.  “My father made millions in real estate in the US.  He and my mother were killed in an accident several years ago, so I got my inheritance a bit early.  Thought it best to enjoy it while I can.”

Greg bowed his head.  “I’m sorry about your loss.”

Charlotte stood, waving a hand through the air.  “Thank you, but it’s really okay.  My parents lived a very full life and, while I miss them, life goes on.  Best to make of it what you can instead of whining about what it isn’t.”

Greg nodded as he stood.  “Can you show me the safe?”

“Sure.  It’s this way.”  She led him from the kitchen through a short hallway to a set of stairs and to the second floor.  At the top of the stairs, she turned to the first door on the right into a bedroom.   The room sat on the far corner of the house, to the back, away from the street, and had three floor-to-ceiling windows on each of the exterior walls.  A dresser and chest of drawers were dark cherry, a clean and simple cut to each piece.  The bed itself was a king, the headboard upholstered in cream linen with exquisite nail heads accentuating the curve of it.  There were a few paintings on the wall, each of a beach scene lending a bright and airy feel to the already warm room.  Off to one side he could see a massive walk-in closet that was probably as big as his entire flat and just to the right of that was the en-suite bathroom.  Charlotte moved to one of the paintings, tapping it on the bottom, and Greg watched as it rose, revealing a safe behind it.

She stepped back and gestured for him to join her at the safe.  Situated near the windows, he idly wondered if someone had gained access through one of them.  The report had not mentioned a break-in.  “There was no sign of forced entry, correct?”

Charlotte nodded.  “What about the windows?  Can anyone access them from the ground floor?”

“I suppose they could but they were all locked.  He’d have to be a very clever thief to come in through the window and then lock it behind himself on the way out.”  She flashed another smile at him and took a small step forward.

Clearing his throat, Greg turned to face her.  “I suppose, yeah.  What about the doors?  You keep those locked, I assume.  Who has keys?”

“I do, of course.  My brother, if he’s in town.  My assistant and the cleaning service.  No one else.”

Something flashed through Charlotte’s eyes and then suddenly, she closed the space between them, stepping into Greg’s personal space, placing her hand on his forearm.  She leaned forward, placing her head to the side of Greg’s, whispering in his ear.  “Are you going to ask me about my enemies?  Or if I know of anyone who would want to take them from me?  I’m sure I have other things that people would be much more interested in taking.  You, perhaps?” 

He shivered at the feel of her breath on the side of his neck and closed his eyes.  God, was she saying what he thought or was this just a trick of his lonely mind?  Before he could figure it out, he felt a hand cup the side of his face and, before he could open his eyes, he felt the brush of her lips over hers.

At first it was gentle, a soft kiss, the parting of lips, a sweep of the tongue.  Before Greg knew what had overtaken him, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him hard, pressing her body against his from chest to knees and kissed her brutally, fully exploring her mouth with his tongue.  He felt her reciprocate – hands on his chest, brushing over his shoulders as she removed his coat jacket and let it fall to the floor.  She began on the buttons of his dress shirt and he let his hands wander her body, cupping her arse at first, but sensing the need to give her space to remove his shirt and tie, he began to wander over her breasts, his mouth working its way down her exposed throat.

Greg pulled back a bit after Charlotte had removed his shirt.  She stood before him, still fully clothed, taking in the sight of him, bare torso, one of her hands on his hip, one on his chest before she reached to her own top and pulled it over her head.  Greg stood, bated breath, enthralled.  He watched her remove her bra; her breasts were larger than any he’d ever seen before and her nipples were hard and dark pink.  He leaned forward to touch them but she smacked his hand away then pointed to the bed.  He stumbled over to it, sitting on the edge, watching as she unbuckled her jeans, sliding them off but leaving her panties on.  She stalked over to him, taking the space between his legs, and gave him a hard kiss before shoving him back on the bed. 

“Charlotte…” he rasped.

She leaned in and ghosted a kiss over his lips.  “Shh, Detective.  Enjoy this.”  She climbed onto the bed between his legs and quickly stripped him of his trousers, pants, and socks.  Greg watched as she stripped him, his erection standing prominently between them.  He was entirely unready when she positioned herself between his legs and took his cock in her mouth.  He threw his head back onto the bed with a loan groan, his hands digging into the duvet.  He closed his eyes and surrendered to the sensation.  It was so moist and hot, then she licked up his cock and suckled on the head until he thought he was about to burst.

He looked down just as she came off of his cock and his instinct took over.  He reached down and in one swift motion, pulled her up and flipped her onto her back.  Once on top, he gave her a bruising kiss, then sank down to her breasts, kissing and sucking one while twisting the nipple of the other.  She writhed and moaned underneath him, her hands in his hair.

Suddenly she grabbed one of his hands and shoved it towards her pussy, a soft _please_ escaping her lips.  Greg reached down to find her completely bare, his cock twitching at the thought of it.  He quickly found entrance, getting even harder from the wetness he found there.  With a finger, he slid through and found her clit, rubbing it gently as he continued to suck on her breast.  Charlotte writhed underneath him, and then pulled him up, grasping the hand that was just inside her and licking his fingers clean.  He watched her, pupils blow wide, mouth open, each rasping breath coming out shallow.  She looked him directly in the eyes when she whispered, “Fuck me now”.

He reached down, grabbing his cock in his hand and guiding it to her waiting entrance, pressing lightly against her pussy before gently sliding in.  The sensation made his eyes roll back in his head.  “Fuck me”, she demanded.  “Fuck me hard, now.”

At that he began to pound into her, her head pressed back into the duvet, the sounds of her moans and gasps filling the room.  He was breathing hard and kissing her neck, a moan of his own escaping every time he twisted within her just right.

She moaned and whined and it was glorious.  He’d never had a lover who was as vocal and he had no idea what a turn on it would be.  They were both glistening with sweat when she finally screamed her orgasm.  She shuddered and the pressure inside her grew and he found himself unable to hold back any longer.  With a loud grunt, he climaxed inside her, pushing even deeper than he thought possible as he finished.

His cock beginning to soften, he pulled out and rolled to one side of Charlotte.  “That was amazing.”  He flashed her a grin.

She smiled in return.  “It certainly was, Detective Inspector.” 

He rolled over and cupped her face in his free hand, placing a gentle kiss on her lips.  “Greg.  You can call me Greg, remember?”  He paused as the awkwardness of the situation hit him.  He let his lust get the better of him and he was a fool, having sex with her without protection.  Shit, what was he thinking?

He blushed and rolled back over, clearing his throat.  “Mind if I clean up?”

“Certainly, the bathroom’s just through there.  Make yourself at home.”

He grabbed his clothes and headed to the en-suite.  He found a flannel and wiped himself off, chucking it in the tub once he was done.  He dressed quickly and gave himself a once over; would anyone at the office know he’d had a quick shag with a crime victim?  He was truly buggered if they did.

When he returned to the bedroom, Charlotte was still lying on the bed, but wrapped in the duvet.  She was totally at ease and smiling.  Greg ran a hand through his short hair, eyes, drifting to the floor, the awkwardness shifting through his body.

“Uhm, Charlotte…I mean, Ms. Hill…I, uhm…”  _Great, Greg, you idiot…_

“Charlotte, please.  And there is no reason to feel awkward, Greg.”  She gave him another cheeky smile.  “I rather enjoyed your visit today.  Perhaps we’ll have a chance to meet another time?”

He looked up, unsure what she meant.  He’d love to see her again, not just for the sex.  She was a beautiful woman and he would like the opportunity to know her better.  “Uhm, yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good.  Then I’ll call you, if you’ll give me one of your cards.  Now come here and kiss me goodbye.”

Chuckling, Greg strode over to the bed and leaned into a passionate kiss before turning and seeing himself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because honestly, if Rupert Graves came into my home, this is what I'd do.


	4. Stupid, Stupid, Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg contacts Mycroft for that dinner.

Greg slipped into bed that night with another pounding headache, this time fueled by his foolish lack of self-control at the hands of one Ms. Charlotte Hill.  There was nothing to be done now, of course, but he couldn’t help the anxiety that had overtaken him that afternoon when he arrived back at his office.  He felt like there were a million little eyes on him and that everyone he crossed knew that he shagged a woman he should have been interviewing.  Moreover, he’d had sex with her without protection – he could have any number of STIs or he could have even gotten her pregnant.  _Stupid, stupid, Greg_ , his mind continued to supply.

And now what was he supposed to do?  Was he to expect something from this?  Or would it be a one-night stand?  Charlotte had said she’d like to see him again, but who knew when that would be given all the traveling she did.  He had no idea if she was still in London, or if she were how much longer she would stay.  And he had the familiar feeling of being way out of her league, just as he had with Mycroft.

Mycroft.  Mycroft Holmes - the handsome ginger with the bespoke suits.  A sudden desire to talk to Mycroft hit Greg.

_Mycroft, what about that dinner?  GL_

_Good evening, Gregory.  I thought you weren’t interested in dinner.  MH_

_Yeah, well, I changed my mind.  I am now.  GL_

_Why?  MH_

_Why not?  GL_

A smirk played across his lips at that.  He’d turned the tables on Mycroft – it certainly wouldn’t happen often so he best enjoy it while he can.

_Touché.  Tomorrow?  MH_

_Yes, tomorrow.  GL_

Fuck buggery fuck.  What the hell did he just do?  Why would the tryst with Charlotte make him think of Mycroft?  His head pounding even harder now, he set his mobile aside and drifted into a fitful sleep.

**oOo**

Mycroft had spent the last few weeks busy with this or that crisis, watching his baby brother land in the hospital after being reckless with his own safety _again_ , and the advances he’d made to one Gregory Lestrade be shot down.  So here he sat in front of the fireplace, two fingers of scotch in his glass, with one hand rubbing the temples of his head, trying to ease the headache that threatened to overtake all rational thought.  The crises would sort themselves out with his assistance, as they always did, John would sort Sherlock as he always did, and Lestrade, well, he supposed Lestrade had sorted out his advances too.

Mycroft wasn’t a man who typically indulged himself in carnal pleasures and even more rarely pursued a romantic relationship, but there had been over the past several months, increasingly so since Greg’s divorce, any number of things that had drawn his eye to the handsome detective.  It wasn’t just that he was patient with Sherlock, but he was smart and funny and loyal.  Mycroft found himself drawn to Greg’s smile again and again, like a month to a flame.  He could see a little bit of bad boy underneath that good cop exterior, and it was just a constant niggle in Mycroft’s stomach that made him want to find out more.   It was the way that the DI fought him just a little every time Mycroft dished out a _request_ , the way that he found the man had no fear to stand up to him, the way he’d handled his divorce with grace.

When he’d been dismissed seemingly outright by the DI after a second attempt at spending time together, he mentally kicked himself for reaching out, since he knew all too well that such acts were the often the downfall of great men.  Yes, it was best for him to be alone as he always had been.  That’s why when his mobile beeped that night and he saw the number, he felt simply shocked.

_Mycroft, what about that dinner?  GL_

He stared at the phone for a moment, not sure how to respond but doing so anyway.

_Good evening, Gregory.  I thought you weren’t interested in dinner.  MH_

_Yeah, well, I changed my mind.  I am now.  GL_

Changed his mind…Mycroft proceeded cautiously.

_Why?  MH_

_Why not?  GL_

A smirk played across his lips at that.  Greg had turned the tables on him.  Someone didn’t often get the upper hand with him, so he let it slide, adding it to the ever-growing list of why he liked Gregory Lestrade.

_Touché.  Tomorrow?  MH_

_Yes, tomorrow.  GL_


	5. Wine and Plane Tickets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft begin to spend more time together, get to know each other a little better, until Greg receives an invitation to visit the U.S.

The restaurant was a lovely French place, tasteful, but not overly stuffy as Greg had imagined it might be given Mycroft’s tastes.  The man himself was already at a table, intimately placed where one could see most of the restaurants’ other patrons but still secluded.  Greg was surprised to see Mycroft in casual dress, or what would pass for casual on Mycroft Holmes.  Gone was the three piece suit and in its place a pair of khakis, a button down dress shirt, and a burgundy jumper.  Not just a jumper, Greg noted but a cashmere jumper.  

Mycroft looked up as Greg approached and a genuine smile played at his lips.  There was a blush on his cheeks, whether from the wine in his glass or his nerves, Greg wasn’t sure.

“Good evening, Gregory.  I’m so glad you could join me.”  Mycroft gestured for Greg to sit and picked up the wine bottle to pour a glass for his companion.  “I took the liberty of ordering wine.”

“Thanks.”  Greg sat and picked up the menu, scanning it. “Do you come here often?”  _That sounded like a pick up line,_ he thought, _and a bad one at that._

Mycroft finished pouring the wine and gently placed the bottle back in the cooler.  “It is one of my preferred places in London, but I don’t indulge often.”

Just then Greg realized the menu was in French and he didn’t speak or read French. He had no doubt, however, that Mycroft Holmes did.  “Bloody hell, Mycroft, I can’t read French.  Care to interpret?”

A laugh erupted from across the table and Greg looked up, caught by surprise.  Mycroft’s face was open, his eyes bright, and he looked relaxed.  It was as if a whole new person had emerged in Greg’s presence.  Greg couldn’t help but smile in return.

“If you’ll allow, I can order for both of us.  I assume you like lamb and duck?”

Greg nodded, placing the menu back on the table as Mycroft signaled for the waiter to join them.  He ordered, speaking fluently, and then turned back to Greg.

“I ordered their specialty.  You will not be disappointed.”

“I’m sure of that.”  Greg flashed a toothy grin.  He took a sip from his wine glass and whistled.  “Wow, this is some good stuff.”

Again, Mycroft laughed.  “I’m glad you are enjoying it.”

“Amusing you, am I?”

“You are, yes.”

“Why’s that then?  You like laughing at my lack of culture?”

“Nonsense, Gregory.  You are perfectly cultured but I can tell you don’t indulge much in more lavish things.”

Greg smiled at this.  True, of course.  “Not on a DI’s salary, no, I don’t.”

“Well, then.  Even more reason for you to enjoy this evening to its fullest.  Of course, if I thanked you every time you helped my brother, we’d be frequent guests here.”

This time it was Greg’s turn to laugh.  “God, that’s true enough.”  He raised his glass to Mycroft for a toast.  “Here’s to Sherlock getting into trouble.  _Again._ ”

At that they both laughed.

The evening was spent in casual conversation.  Having covered the wine and their dinner selections, they discovered a shared interest in history and art, to some extent.  Both enjoyed traveling although neither had a chance to do much because of their work.  They talked about Sherlock and John and a little about Greg’s work, but Mycroft was careful to say very little about his own.  All-in-all, Greg was amazed at their common interests and how easy the flow between them occurred.

They parted effortlessly after their nightcaps, both agreeing to have dinner again sometime.  It had been a good night and Greg was glad he’d accepted the invitation after all.  He wasn’t sure what Mycroft had intended but he liked what he’d gotten.  So far.

**oOo**

The “dates” with Mycroft continued, once or twice a month, for several months and Greg began to look forward to their time together.  He was still lonely, still down over the mundane life he was leading, but quickly the time spent with Mycroft became a bright spot in his otherwise boring and all-too-predictable existence.

Greg hadn’t thought at all about Charlotte Hill since the day he’d met her at her flat, so when he arrived to his office that Monday morning and found an envelope addressed to him lying in his chair, he didn’t think of her.  At all.

Inside the envelope was a plane ticket and a note.

_Dear Greg,_

_I trust this finds you well.  I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a flight to come for a visit.  I hope you will accept my invitation and allow me to show you around the U.S.  If the schedule doesn’t suit, feel free to rebook._

_Yours,_

_Charlotte_

Greg stared at the ticket in his hand.  It was dated for three weeks from today.

He felt his heart thump wildly in his chest and his palms become slick with sweat at the craziness of it - a surprise trip to America at the whim of a beautiful younger woman.  He could escape London, escape England, escape the responsibilities of life, the whatever-this-was with Mycroft, the loneliness, the monotony…would it be just too crazy to take off for a trip overseas to spend time with a woman he met just once?  Likely, but when would he ever get this chance again?

He gave his holiday notice to his superiors that day.

**oOo**

Two weeks later brought another invitation from Mycroft for dinner, but this time at his flat.  Greg wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it was a nice change of pace so he agreed.  Besides, he was eager to share the plans of his trip with the elder Holmes.  He wanted to make sure that if Mycroft tried to contact him while he was gone he wouldn’t expect to receive an answer.  It was important to Greg that Mycroft knew he wasn’t just blowing him off.

Their night was spent in an easy flow of conversation, laughing, food, and wine.  With the dishes cleared and the wine bottle empty, Greg found himself standing in the door to Mycroft’s lavish flat, saying his goodbyes.

“Thanks again, Mycroft.”

A bright smile met him.  “As always, you are welcome, Gregory.”

“Uhm, look, I guess I need to tell you that I’m going on holiday next week.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise.  “Oh, you hadn’t mentioned.”

Greg scratched the back of his head with one hand and shoved the other in a pocket.  “Yeah, sort of a spur of the moment decision, really.”  He caught Mycroft’s eyes.  He suddenly felt anxious about telling Mycroft the truth.  It didn’t make sense though; they weren’t dating, that he could tell.  They were just two blokes who spent an occasional evening together.  There had not been any advances or innuendos or suggestions otherwise, no matter how much he wanted there to be.  _Wait…did he want there to be?_ “I’m flying over to the US to visit a friend, someone I met here in London.  She asked me to come over and I decided to go.”

Mycroft visibly straightened and suddenly the hard mask that had fallen away over the past several months was back.  “I see, Gregory.”  His tone was cold and formal.  “Well, I hope you have a wonderful time.  Good night.”  And with that, the door shut in his face.


	6. America, Land of the Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft just slammed the door shut in the face of the man he fancies. Now what?

Mycroft pressed his forehead against the door, closing his eyes, burdened by a sudden weight on him.  He’d waited too long to make an advance on Greg and now the chance was gone.  Who was this woman that Greg was going to America to see?  Surely she was more than just a friend; most people don’t fly thousands of miles to another country just to visit a friend _of the opposite sex._   No, it made sense that this woman was an object of Greg’s affection and the trip was a romantic interlude.

Mycroft straightened and walked to the kitchen.  The dishes were still in the sink and the empty wine bottle still sat on the countertop serving as reminders of the comfortable evenings they’d had together.  Mycroft thought back to their first dinner – the wine, the easy conversation, the chemistry between them.  _Or what I thought was chemistry_ , he chastised himself.  Clearly the attraction was one-sided; Mycroft knew that now.  If that was true, then it was best that he hadn’t made any moves on Greg; the rejection would be humiliating at best and heartbreaking at worst.

 _Dammit, I know better than this.  This is why I should remain alone._   The thoughts ran through his mind like race dogs after a rabbit.  Love was never worth the ultimate cost; he should know this by now.  He turned from the kitchen and passed into the lounge to the cabinet where he kept his best spirits, needing something to wash away the ache in his stomach.  He poured two fingers of scotch into a finely cut crystal glass and winced as it tore down his throat.  He poured another portion and downed it just as quickly.  Why had he ever allowed himself to think that there could be more with Gregory than he’d ever had before?

The past few months of their dinners and evenings together had been good for him.  He enjoyed himself, and for the first time in many years, he’d laughed openly, dropping his cold mask and allowing himself to be free with another person.  He’d been vulnerable and open but he had taken things slowly.  There was time to get to know each other and to spend time building a friendship; they weren’t 19 and driven by hormones.  Mycroft respected Gregory and wanted to work up to a relationship; he wanted to make love to Gregory their first time together, to show him without words just how much he meant to him.  _But that is a lost cause,_ he thought bitterly, _a pipe dream._

From now on, he would be cordial to the inspector, but there would be no more friendly dinners, no more shared moments of laughter or empty bottles of wine.  All because of a holiday to America.

**oOo**

Greg stood dead still in shock, mouth agape, staring at the door which had just been shut in his face.  What the hell was that?  He only wanted to let Mycroft know he was going on holiday so the man wouldn’t think he was ignoring him if he tried to get in touch.  There was nothing wrong with that.  He thought it was the decent thing to do.  It certainly didn’t justify having a door slammed in his face, did it?  That’s not what friends normally do when you say you are going on holiday.  And they were just friends.  Right?  Just friends?  It had been months of these _dates_ and not once had Mycroft indicated there was anything other than friendship on his mind.  That is until tonight.

Greg turned and stomped down the stairs to his car.  His head was starting to pound and he felt angry.  Angry and confused.  Just who the hell did Mycroft Holmes think he was?  He’d done nothing, absolutely nothing, to show he was interested in Greg in a romantic way but his reaction to Greg’s news tonight betrayed the hours of time they’d spent together.  Clearly there was something else going on here but Mycroft was too stupid to do anything about it.  Or maybe he wasn’t stupid at all.  No, more than likely he was acting in typical Holmesian fashion and waiting for Greg to come to him, for Greg to make the first move as if it was beneath him to do so.  _Yeah,_ Greg mused, _that is much more likely._   The thought served to infuriate him even more.

 _Well, damn you, Mycroft Holmes_ , he thought, _I’m going to the U.S. and I’m having a great time._

He was too angry to go to bed once he arrived back at his own dingy flat, so he broke out a beer and switched on the telly to drown out the noise in his head.  Sometime in the night he fell asleep where he lay and when the morning came, his headache was worse, there was a painful kink in his neck, and he was still angry.  He only had a few more days left in London before he boarded the plane for the U.S.; he was going to forget about Mycroft Holmes and his annoying mind games and focus on the trip.  The only thought on his mind now was _Screw you, Mr Holmes!_  


	7. You Surprised Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is still angry. Mycroft makes a decision. Maybe America ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Days later, the day before his holiday officially started, Greg was still angry.  He was at home this afternoon, throwing his belongings into a grungy, old suitcase and cursing under his breath.  The source of his anger was Mycroft.  Why was that bloody prick getting to him so badly?  He was mad that the door had been slammed in his face and he was mad that Mycroft had acted like a jealous lover when _they were just friends._   But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true.  Or at least, he didn’t want it to be true.  What he wanted was to get to know the man better, more intimately, to continue to break through the hard shell to get to the soft layers of humanity beneath.  He’d seen glimpses of it and he wanted to be the one who cracked it altogether.  What he desired for himself was the Mycroft that no one else got to see.

**oOo**

Mycroft hesitated outside Greg’s door, his hand suspended in air ready to knock.  _Is this the right thing to do_ , he wondered.  He'd spent most of the previous evening debating his decision over and over again.  He wasn’t the kind of man to give up easily on what he getting what he wanted and Gregory Lestrade was something he wanted, very badly.  It had been unfair of him to react as he had that night in his flat, but Greg’s announcement had taken him by surprise.  He really didn’t know who this woman was or what she meant to Greg and he’d reacted out of jealously instead of gathering data.  Perhaps she was just a friend.  Perhaps he did share Mycroft’s feelings.  It’s not like Mycroft had ever given him a chance to show them, one way or the other.

So he found himself on Greg’s doorstep, ready to apologize for his behavior and set things right between them before Greg left for America.  But now that he was here, he could feel tension boiling in his stomach and he started to second guess.  He also wasn’t the kind of man who begged for what he wanted.  But hell, if you risk nothing, you gain nothing and this he knew all too well.  He could apologize and let Greg know his true intentions regarding their relationship _without begging._   It was a skill he had well-honed over the years.

**oOo**

He threw in a wrinkled t-shirt and some pairs of pants when he heard a knock on his door.  He wasn’t expecting anyone so it was probably just the old lady from next door.  She liked to check up on him from time to time; he suspected she liked to see if she could get any good gossip on him to share with the other neighbors.  He opened the door to find one impeccably dressed Mycroft Holmes standing before him.

“Gregory.”

“Mycroft.”  With the object of his anger before him, Greg just stared and waited.

Mycroft shifted a bit, looking down at his shoes, tapping his umbrella once on the floor.  “Can I come in?”

“Not sure, Mycroft.  What do you want?”

Mycroft looked up, surprise at Greg’s harsh tone evident in his eyes.  “I came to apologize for the other night at my flat.  I’m afraid I was rather…rude.  I’m sorry.”

Greg huffed.  “Yeah, I’d say.  You slammed the door in my face, Mycroft!  What the hell was that about?”

“If you’ll let me in, I’ll explain.  I’d prefer not to do it in the hall.”

Greg stepped aside, letting Mycroft pass by him as he quickly closed the door.  He turned, and, crossing his arms over his chest, said, “Alright, you’re in.  Now explain.”

Mycroft began slowly, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt sleeve.  “I…was not expecting you to…it surprised me that you…”

A chuckle escaped Greg’s lips.  He’d not seen Mycroft this nervous since…well, never.  The man was actually stumbling over his words and a pink hue was spreading across his cheeks.

Mycroft looked up at Greg at the laugh.  He knew what he must look like – here he was fumbling his words and he must be blushing – he could feel the heat spreading over his face.  He took a deep breath and straightened himself.  He was a man who could topple governments, surely he could apologize and express his feelings clearly!

“I was surprised at your announcement of your holiday plans and I’m afraid I may have jumped to an incorrect conclusion without knowing all the facts.”

“And what facts would those be?”

“I made an assumption about the _friend_ you are going to visit.  That assumption did not sit well with me.”

Greg was shocked.  Did Mycroft just admit to being jealous?  He dropped his arms and put his hands in his pockets.  “What assumption did you make, Mycroft?”

“I assumed she was a lover.”

“And?”

“And…I did not like the thought.”

Greg shook his head, using the moment’s silence to gather his thoughts.  “Why” was all he could muster.

“Why not?”

He rolled his eyes.  “I asked you why, Mycroft.  That is not an answer.”

Mycroft looked down again, this time twirling his umbrella round and round on the floor.  The silence stretched on until Greg could stand it no more.

Greg stared at the man before him.  “She was a lover.  You were correct.”

When Mycroft looked up, there was no mistaking the hurt that passed through his eyes.  But once again the cold mask slipped into place and it was gone.  “I see.  Well then, I only came to apologize.  I am sorry for my behavior.  I’ll see myself out.” 

He made to step around Greg but was halted by a hand grabbing his bicep.

“No, you’ll stay right there.”

The two men locked eyes and Mycroft nodded slightly.  Greg let go of his arm.  “I asked you why you didn’t like the thought that she was my lover and I am waiting for an answer.”

“Greg, I…”

“I’m waiting.”

“I…I was jealous.”

Greg raised his eyebrows.  “Jealous?”

At this Mycroft seemed to lose control a bit.  He spoke rapidly, almost as if he spoke too slowly the words might break him before they got out.  “Yes, jealous.  We’ve spent months together, getting to know each other, and then you…you…”

“I what?”

“You go and plan a trip to see a woman in another country like I mean nothing to you!”

He wasn’t sure how to respond but thankfully Mycroft continued.  It was as if the dam broke and all the words he’d wanted to say for those months together came rushing out.

“I thought there was something between us.  I was taking things slowly.  I wanted it to be right and not rushed.  Obviously I read the situation incorrectly.  Obviously you didn’t feel the same.”

“Feel the same?”

“As me.  Feel the same about me.  In love with me as I am with you.”

Greg inhaled sharply and turned on his heel, mind reeling as the words played back again and again.  Mycroft was in love with him.  Had he known?  Had he seen it?

Mycroft took one look at Greg’s back and realized he’d revealed too much.  Obviously the man didn’t feel the same way.  “I’m sorry, Gregory.  I’ll leave now.”  One hand reached for the door knob.

“Don’t you dare.”

Mycroft paused, facing the door, too afraid to face Gregory.

“I said, don’t you dare, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft dropped his hand from the knob but didn’t turn around.  He could hear Greg take a few steps towards him, and then felt his heat and his body slipped in behind his.  Again, another hand on his bicep, this time gentler, this time urging him to turn around.  He did so slowly.

“Greg, I…”

“You love me?”  Greg’s eyes were wide open and Mycroft could see his own fear and anxiety mirrored in them.  He realized that they were both exposed and vulnerable.

Barely a whisper.  “I do.”

“How long?”  Greg’s breath played at his ear.

“Ages.”

He closed his eyes as he felt Greg shift backward slightly, opening them again as he felt a hand softly cup the line of his jaw.

“I didn’t know.”  Greg breathed across Mycroft’s lips, the tip of his nose just barely brushing his cheek.  The air felt wet and moist.  “I didn’t know.”

Mycroft instinctively titled his head.  “Now you do.”

Greg closed the gap with a sweet, tender kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.  “I do.”  Greg shifted his position a bit and began to brush his lips over Mycroft’s. 

“Stop.”  Mycroft pulled back, giving Greg a slight push.

Greg’s brow crinkled and he was confused.  “What?  Why?”

“This isn’t what you want.”

Taking another step back, he raised his hands in mock surrender.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Me.  I’m not what you want.”

Greg dropped his hands, curling his fists into balls.  The anger he felt earlier returned although for a different reason this time.  “What the bloody hell are you on about now?  How can you say that?”

Shifting Mycroft looked at Greg, sadness in his eyes.  “You are going to visit your lover in America.”  He tried to keep his voice even.

He couldn’t contain himself any longer.  “Dammit, Mycroft!  Charlotte and I had sex one fucking time!  That’s it.  The invitation to America was the first I’ve heard from her since.”  Now it was his turn to vent all his pent up emotions.

“I was only going over there to escape – escape the monotony of life here, escape whatever the hell this is with us.  You’ve spent months inviting me out, never once giving me any indication that you were truly interested in me as anything other than a friend.”  He stopped, rubbed a hand down his face, and took a deep breath.  “I’ve been wondering, waiting.  I thought I was going crazy to think you’d ever be interested in me as anything else.  But all those dinners, those _dates_ – that’s what they were.  And I waited for you to make a move and nothing.  You did nothing!  Not until I told you I was going on holiday and you slammed a bloody door in my face!”

Greg took a step forward until he was back in Mycroft’s face.  He lowered his voice.  “And now, now you come here and tell me you love me and _then_ have the nerve to tell me what I want or don’t want?!  It doesn’t work that way, Mycroft.”  He grabbed the back of the ginger’s neck and pulled him into a brutal kiss; it was hungry and desperate and angry.

Mycroft pushed back again, this time much harder.  “No, not like that.  I don’t want our first time to be angry.”

“How do you want it then, Mycroft?”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to advance.  He stepped to Greg, running a hand up his arm, resting on the side of his neck.  “Do you want me, Gregory?”

Greg nodded, pupils blown wide with desire.  “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”  Another nod was the answer.

“Then I want to be gentle.  I want to make love to you, not devour you.  That is how I want you to remember our first time.”  He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Greg’s. 


	8. My Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft's first time.

Greg slowly tilted back, his lips reluctantly leaving the warmth of his lover’s.  _My lover,_ he thought, _will we become lovers tonight?_   It was a tantalizing prospect, exhilarating and frightening all in one.  He laced his fingers of one hand in Mycroft’s and tugged gently, taking a first step towards the back of his flat where his bedroom was.

“What are you doing, Gregory?”

He stopped, turning to face Mycroft, placing one hand against his hip.  “I’m taking you to my bed to make love to you.”  He continued to guide Mycroft down the hall.

They stepped inside the room, Mycroft watching as Greg cleared the bed of his suitcase.  “Don’t need that anymore” he declared, tossing it aside.  With one swift motion, he pulled the duvet and sheets down to the foot of the bed, then stepped back to where Mycroft was waiting in the door.

Without a word, he took the man’s hands in his own and began to kiss him softly, first on the cheek, then the corner of his mouth.  Mycroft closed his eyes enjoying the heat of Greg’s skin and lips on his own.  Greg’s hands moved up his arms and settled at his neck, working the knot of the tie until it became loose and he could slide it from the shirt collar.  He pulled back slightly, pupils blow wide, breath slightly uneven, sliding the jacket slowly from Mycroft’s shoulders.  Next went the waistcoat, unbuttoned and dropped unceremoniously into the pile with the tie and jacket.

Mycroft glanced at the pile, then at Greg, and began to unbutton his sleeves as Greg worked deftly at each button on his ludicrously expensive shirt.   He was stopped before he could remove it fully, Mycroft wanting to even the playing field and reached to pull Greg’s t-shirt over his head.  It joined the other clothes in the pile followed quickly by Mycroft’s shirt.

Greg made the next move and removed his jeans, tossing them aside.  He stood before Mycroft in only his pants, his cock already hard and peeking out ever so slightly over the edge of them.  Mycroft’s eyes raked over him, drinking in the sight.  Greg stepped back in to him and kissed him harder, this time fully on the lips while his hands played over the man’s pale chest before settling at the top of his trousers.  He slowed his advance though, and softening his kisses, made his way from Mycroft’s mouth to the pale expanse of his neck.  Above him, he heard Mycroft’s breaths quicken and he felt his hands reach to his hips to pull him closer.

Greg’s hands played at the button and zipper of Mycroft’s trousers, before skillfully undoing them and pulling his trousers and pants down in one go.  Mycroft let out a gasp of surprise as he stood before Greg naked.  Greg looked down at his body, taking in the soft hue of his skin and the spattering of his ginger hair.  Nestled in a small cluster of wiry red hair, Mycroft’s member was swollen and pointing to the left.  It was breathtaking, he thought, as his body rubbed lightly against his lover’s.

“Bed.”  His voice was raspy and ragged with desire.  He pulled Mycroft closer and spun them around; using his whole body to push Mycroft towards the bed, he peppered him with kisses the whole way.

Once settled on the bed, Greg climbed on top of Mycroft, pressing his body as close as he could.  He wished that he could somehow climb inside the man and feel him from the inside out because what little space that still existed between them was still too much.  _My lover,_ he mused.

As Greg began to suck a spot on his neck, Mycroft reached down for Greg’s pants.  He wanted nothing more than to feel every inch of Greg’s skin against his, to feel the heat of want spread through his body and seep into Mycroft’s.  He could smell the man’s unique odor of musk, sweat, and shampoo.  It was intoxicating and Mycroft breathed deeply, inhaling it like a drug.  He made quick work of Greg’s pants and looked down at his body.  It was long, fit, and tan, just as Mycroft imagined it would be.  Mycroft shifted slightly underneath Greg, brushing their cocks together and the motion made Greg inhale sharply, an _Oh god_ escaping under his breath.

Then he was back at Mycroft’s mouth.  The kisses were harder this time, but still gentle and not laced with the anger that had been dwelling in him for days.  He thrust smoothly against Mycroft, and both gasped this time, the friction and heat building but not quelling their mutual desire.  Greg drew away from the kissing and caught Mycroft’s eyes; the yearning he saw in him made his heart ache with affection and _love_.  _Oh god, I love him._   _I want to make love to him, earnestly make love to him, not just fuck._

Mycroft caught the sentiment in Greg’s eyes and nodded, whispering raggedly, “Yes, Gregory.  Yes.”

Rolling slightly to the right, Greg fumbled in the top nightstand drawer and came away with a small bottle of lube.  He slicked up his fingers and tossed the bottle to the side.  He searched Mycroft’s eyes again and seeing the desire and need there, he reached between his legs and began to circle his entrance.  A small moan escaped Mycroft’s lips as Greg breached him; he tensed underneath the intrusion and Greg spoke softly, “Relax.  Let me make love to you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and Greg started showering him with small kisses on his neck and chest.  He felt himself relaxing and he concentrated on enjoying Greg’s ministrations.  Before he could grasp what was happening, a second digit joined the first and began to tenderly scissor him, in the process finding his prostrate and eliciting a sharp moan and wiggle.  Greg came back to his mouth to kiss him, his tongue sweeping at Mycroft’s, inquiring if he was ready for Greg to take him.  The eagerness with which he kissed back answered.

He felt empty as Greg withdrew his fingers but he waited patiently for the detective to coat his cock in lube.  As he lined himself up at Mycroft’s entrance, he leaned forward for another kiss, barely pressing the tip of his cock against the puckering hole.  He pressed a little harder and pulled back, all the while kissing Mycroft, but not making entry.  Mycroft moved underneath him but he continued pressing and pulling back, teasing, until Mycroft couldn’t stand it anymore; he began to kiss Gregory more intensely to distract him as he reached down and pulled the man’s hips towards his arse and he raised to meet him.  He shoved Gregory all the way into him hard and fast in one motion and both men moaned loudly, breaking the kiss.

Greg looked at Mycroft, a crooked grin on his lips, which Mycroft wiped off with another heated kiss.  Greg began to pull out and push into him – not a brutal, hard, crushing fuck but one that spoke of the tenderness in Greg’s heart.  It was just what Mycroft had wanted, everything he wanted their first time to be.  There would be time enough for bone-crushing, fast and furious fucks later; but there would be only one first time like this.  He moaned and writhed underneath his lover, his hands running from his hips up and down his sides.  The kissing continued as if neither would live without the other’s breath.  It was glorious.

Above him, Greg was moaning and his movements were becoming more irregular; he was close.  Mycroft leaned forward to his ear and whispered a ghost across it.  “Come for me, Gregory.  Come in me.”  It tipped Greg over the edge and Mycroft watched as his lover’s eyes squeezed shut and his back arched, a long, loud moan escaping his ravaged lips.  As Greg rode his orgasm, Mycroft reached between them and grabbed his member, tugging hard until his orgasm erupted between their bodies.

With another passionate kiss, Greg slowly pulled out and disappeared into the bathroom across the hall.  He returned a few moments later with a wet flannel for Mycroft, who cleaned himself up quickly before making his own visit to the bathroom.  When he returned, Greg was bundled under the bed covers, a pleased smile on his face.  He lifted a corner of the covers and motioned for Mycroft to join him.  Mycroft slipped in between, facing Gregory, basking in his glow of the moment.

Greg leaned forward with a kiss, stretching out his arms in a welcoming embrace.  “Come here.”  He snuggled closer, breathing in their combined scent.  It was heavenly.

Greg kissed his ear and whispered, “That was wonderful.”

“Indeed.”

A little hmmm filled his ear and the arms around him tightened before relaxing again.  Greg’s breathing was slowing; he would be asleep in minutes.  Mycroft smiled to himself, feeling more content, happy even, that he had in years.  He calmed and allowed himself to drift off to sleep in the arms of the man he loved.


End file.
